Primeval Origins: Light of Honor (Book 2 in the Primeval Origins Epic Saga)

by Brett Vonsik

  “Afraid, Tuumai?” The Tusaa’Ner sakal asked contemptuously.

  “Never!” Tuumai replied with contempt just as deep and angry. The sakal smiled at his rushed reply. It appeared he intended to put him on his heels and thought he succeeded.

  The blue-armored, red-caped sakal fell silent for a short time. He looked in thought and as if considering one or more decisions. None of his guardsmen nor the Sakes spoke or attempted to interrupt him. Rogaan was not certain if their silence was out of respect or fear, though all stood stolid, with hands to pommels, ready to act with their weapons. After the long pause, the officer nodded to no one, appearing to have made a decision.

  “Trouble, you are.” The sakal looked Rogaan in the eyes, then gave orders without even a glance at those behind him. “Rebind him.”

  The largest of the Tusaa’Ner guardsmen looked to the Sakes before nodding a head toward the cell. Two of the closest Sakes complied with apprehensive steps, entering into the cell with another set of iron shackles. They cautiously positioned themselves on either side of Rogaan before quickly reshackling him, and then carefully helping him to his feet.

  Rogaan’s instinct now was to resist the Sakes and Tusaa’Ner . . . They were the errand younglings of tyrants, but he decided against it. He had done enough to put others in jeopardy. If I comply, maybe the others will be let free. When satisfied with the Sakes’ preparations of Rogaan, the burly Tusaa’Ner sakal announced his intent with an order along with a dismissive hand wave before making to leave. “Toss him in the pit.”

  “Do not do this.” Mithraam spoke out to the Tusaa’Ner officer.

  The blue and red figure stopped to face Mithraam, then held up his hand. Everyone quickly halted once they realized he had commanded so. Frozen in their positions, the Sakes and Tusaa’Ner guardsmen all looked at him expectantly. Anger followed by contempt washed over his face. “What, stoner?”

  “Do not do this,” Mithraam repeated, challenging him as he stared back at the commander. “He has done nothing to you.”

  “His hands are stained with the blood of several Baraans,” the sakal countered sharply. “He’s to pay for his transgressions. Interfere and you will join him.”

  “With no challenge before a Gal?” Mithraam countered in an even tone. “Your guardsmen were harming a defenseless youngling. She was—”

  “No concern of mine,” the sakal cut him off. “I have my orders and need not meddle where rulings of law are made.”

  “It is a concern to all who follow and serve our laws,” Mithraam challenged and chastised.

  The burly Tusaa’Ner officer angrily stepped toward Mithraam while holding him with his stinging glare and speaking with an angry voice. “You dare mock me?”

  Mithraam softened his stance, expression, and tone. “I only wish to remind you of that you know and oathed.”

  The Tusaa’Ner sakal moved close to Mithraam before speaking in a low voice so to keep the guards and guardsmen from hearing. “It’s not like that now. Farratum has changed . . . and not for the better. The pit is your son’s only chance at keeping his Light.”

  The sakal whirled away in a swirl of blue-red, then walked briskly out of the room as he ushered another command. “Fulfill my orders.”

  Rogaan felt the guards tug at him. He resisted until he caught sight of father shaking his head ever so slightly, warning him not to fight, not here, not now. Rogaan resigned himself to being ushered out of the room and down the rough-walled halls. His thoughts fixated on puzzling out his father not wanting him to fight . . . his father’s plan. He always has a plan. Maybe he did not want me to look belligerent. Maybe he has something else planned. He discarded that thought as being too cynical almost as soon as it entered his head. Be serious. He scolded himself. Did he fear I would get the point of a blade? Rogaan gave that some weight, but it seemed not likely since all attempts to harm him and those about him so far ended with guards and guardsmen faring poorly. Maybe Father has an escape planned . . . with that Im’Kas or the dark robes. Rogaan shuddered at that last thought. Father in league with dark robes? Despite his father’s assurances, Rogaan could not bring himself to trust those working for them, the dark robes of the Ebon Circle. Too many townsfolk feared and spoke ill of them. Rogaan shook his head. His father was once a simple metalsmith and father in his mind. Now, with the dark robes as allies plotting influence over the lands, Rogaan did not know how to think of his father.

  Sakes and Tusaa’Ner and lessers filled the halls, ushering people to and from cells and hauling things about. The smell of the place was thick with sweat, blood, and the occasional rancid stench of chamber pots. Rogaan’s nose wrinkled more than a few times while being escorted through the chaos. How does anyone breathe, let alone know what they are to do? He caught talk of what all the hurrying about was for . . . the Arena Games. Its opening show was soon and everyone looked on edge. As they escorted Rogaan down another hall he caught more talk of the games and how unorganized everyone felt. They looked it.

  At the end of a hall constructed of well fitted stone blocks each an arm’s length in width, the guards and guardsmen brought Rogaan to a halt behind another group of three darkly clad Sakes surrounding a staggering prisoner. The Baraan looked well fed with a soft gut, standing just a few fingers shorter than Rogaan with short, matted black hair. Red stains on the black of the Baraan’s neck and shirt hinted at blood being the cause of the matting. The Baraan’s once richly made yellow pants and orange shirt were grimy and torn in many places, and his right elbow length sleeve was completely torn away, allowing all to see rope burns on his upper arm. The Baraan looked in pain. Mostly from being worked over, Rogaan concluded.

  “What do you have here?” That high-pitched voice ground on Rogaan’s spine. The Tusaa’Ner sakal . . . from the jailer’s caravan?

  “Sakal,” the Sake leader of the group in front of them spoke professionally, respectfully. “Another proud one paying the price for hording.”

  “No need to question him so harshly,” the woman sakal disapprovingly commented while looking over the prisoner. Rogaan’s spine quivered as her high-pitched voice echoed all about him. “This one can barely stand.”

  Despite her annoying voice, a desire to see her taunted Rogaan. He caught himself trying to glimpse her and chastised himself for it. What is wrong with me?

  “He spoke words against the Zas and Shuruppak,” the Baraan Sake leader answered as if that was enough reason to commit any punishment against a citizen and would put an end to any further questions. Then he respectfully added with a hint of forcing himself, “Sakal.”

  Rogaan could not see or hear what then transpired between them, but the Sakes soon ushered the wobbly Baraan to a rope at the edge of a circular opening in the floor spanning more than six strides. There they pushed the screaming Baraan into the pit. Shock gripped Rogaan, prickling his skin all over. Is that to be my fate? He tried to not think of it with hope they had other plans for him. Not my concern if I can stay out of the pit, Rogaan told himself.

  “Next,” that high-pitched voice barked in Rogaan’s direction before changing tone to one of dejection. “Not you?”

  “Yes, Dajil.” The burley Tusaa’Ner officer pushed through his guardsmen and past Rogaan while playfully answering the blue-clad Tusaa’Ner woman. He stood almost squarely between Rogaan and the female sakal. Rogaan could see only the back of his red cape and his short cut light brown hair until he leaned left, allowing a clear sight of the woman sakal . . . Dajil. A flush of satisfaction and surprisingly what Rogaan realized was joy swept over him. Rogaan felt a pang of guilt at it as he averted his eyes to look at anything else but her. The male sakal’s tone with Dajil gave hint they shared a history between them. He behaved as if they were equals in rank. “It is I.”

  “Why do you keep bothering me, Jaxtu?” The sakal spat back at her fellow sakal before turning her full attention on Rogaan. “Tellen. Coul
dn’t keep yourself from trouble, could you?”

  Rogaan looked into the face of the red-caped woman, the cape signifying her rank as a sakal commander above the guardsmen, just as Jaxtu. Her radiant green eyes under red-brown and blond-streaked hair that went to her midback captured Rogaan. He ceased hearing her voice despite her lips forming words and sounding while nodding her head in rhythm. Her face and eyes were all Rogaan saw as he was ushered before her by the guardsmen escorting him. She spoke more words directly at him, then grew visibly frustrated as she tilted her head back and rolled those beautiful green eyes. When they broke eye contact, Rogaan shook his head and somewhat managed to clear it. What is in my head? Suhd . . . a wave of guilt washed over him, giving him reason to be angry with himself.

  “Trouble keeping his bindings on,” Jaxtu answered.

  “And he’s a bar bender,” one of the guardsmen offered, then fell silent at a hard glance from his commander.

  The sakal’s eyebrows raised at their words, then her eyes narrowed at Rogaan with suspicion as she spoke to Jaxtu. “Speak true words.”

  “Truly . . .” Jaxtu confirmed his guardsman spoke truth. The sakal’s face turned wide-eyed before concern crinkled her brow. Jaxtu continued, “He’s too dangerous for anywhere but the pit.”

  Dajil looked unconvinced that breaking shackles and bending bars justified the pit as punishment. “There’s no stepping back once in the pit.”

  “Sake zigaar’s command,” Jaxtu added for all to hear, then lowered his voice to near a whisper. “We’ll all get skinned for keeping the blade from this one. Everyone challenging this one gets bloodied . . . or worse.”

  “Courage escapes you . . . Jaxtu?” The sakal delivered her insult with a wry smile. She glanced at Rogaan with a look that he took as satisfaction. Rogaan felt himself flush warm at her glance before another pang of guilt hit him like a sobering bucket of cold water.

  Jaxtu stood still for a long moment before responding to the smiling blue-armored sakal standing before him. “The stoner is in your charge, Dajil. The Sake zigaar is not one to disregard, if that’s where your head is at.”

  The burley Tusaa’Ner commander stepped to the side, motioning with his left arm for his guardsmen to bring Rogaan forward. A sharp prod in the back urged Rogaan to take a step in her direction. Reluctantly, he found himself standing before those radiant green eyes as he caught himself again wanting to stare into them and feeling guilty for it. He forced himself to look away from her. He saw for the first time he stood in a large octagon-shaped chamber with a high domed ceiling and circular open pit in the center of the room, four strides beyond the woman sakal. Stoutly anchored and darkly stained questioning racks adorned each of the eight walls. Rogaan thanked the Ancients that all stood empty. Tightly fitted flagstones covered the chamber’s floor. Many were stained dark with what Rogaan guessed was mostly dried blood that someone tried washing away. Almost ten strides above, a square wood beam structure was firmly anchored into the stone at the top of the dome. The sun’s rays cast beams of light through a large opening above and around a circular wood platform suspended by four heavy chains just below. Floating dust within the chamber made the sun’s rays seem almost solid. This placed looked and smelled of suffering and death that nobody seemed to notice except Rogaan. A bustle of servants dressed in dirty tunics and barefooted hurried about at the shouts and grunts of darkly clothed guards that Rogaan took as unarmored Sakes. Eighteen strides across the room, beyond the open pit, two copper-bound timbered doors separated by some ten strides stood open. Servants leaving this chamber and entering the rooms deeper into this place had arms full . . . of what Rogaan could not tell, only to return moments later empty-handed. Some servants stood at the edge of the pit, dumping reed baskets with what looked to be discarded food, some of it rotten. That gave hope to Rogaan that the once well-to-do Baraan the Sakes and Tusaa’Ner tossed into the pit still lived.

  “I said you’d be trouble.” The sakal spoke more to herself as she looked at a parchment with a list of names in her hands. Her high-pitched voice that irritated him so was absent when she spoke softly. She looked up at Jaxtu, and then annunciated in her high-pitched voice, “He’s not on the list for this day.”

  The burley Tusaa’Ner just shrugged his shoulders as if her problem was no concern to him. “The Sake zigaar demanded he be placed in the pit, not me.”

  The sakal looked at Rogaan with those radiant green eyes of hers. Pain and sorrow shown in them when Rogaan looked her in the eyes. She whispered to him in a pleasant, quiet voice, “Make no more trouble, Tellen, or they will see to un-pleasantries for your friends.”

  A shiver rippled down Rogaan’s back, and his skin prickled as his heart skipped a beat. How long are they to hold my father, Pax, Suhd, and the others over me? Rogaan nodded as his gaze swept over her red-brown and blond-streaked hair and the graceful lines of her face, neck, breast . . . He shook his head again, with more guilt churning inside. What is wrong with me? He gathered himself and forced an expected answer, “I understand. What is to happen to me?”

  “You’re for the games,” the sakal answered sadly. “You’ll have your chance at freedom, but you must fight for it and your life. If you survive, you are set free.”

  “If I survive?” Rogaan did not like the sound of that. For a moment he considered fighting his way out of the chamber but decided instead to do what he needed to do to keep his father and his friends untouched. He looked at the floor, considering the need to show a humble self to those in authority and submit. He had little choice for the moment. He nodded.

  The sakal pointed to the edge of the pit where a chain hung down from the platform above. It hung close to the side of the pit as it descended into the unknown. Dajil’s eyes and face held pain. “Your acts are of noble intent, Tellen. My regrets. To the pit.”

  Rogaan reluctantly stepped to the edge of darkness. That alone caused the hairs on his neck to stand and his skin to prickle. A foul smell struck him as he looked down. The pit was some six strides across and just as deep. The bottom was dark and littered with refuse from what Rogaan could make out. Several Baraans wearing soiled clothing were eating the scraps Rogaan assumed that were just tossed into the pit. His stomach turned. The once well-to-do Baraan lay motionless on top a pile of refuse. Rogaan now feared him dead. What sent another chill down his back was no one seemed to care.

  “In the pit, stoner,” the burley Tusaa’Ner commanded with too much glee.

  Rogaan found the Baraan’s snide speak angering. Not because of the name “stoner,” but from the tone of disrespect it was delivered in. Rogaan stood silently for a moment, hoping not to be forced to climb into the pit. He considered his options again, nothing workable if everyone was to remain unharmed.

  “I have my duty,” the Tusaa’Ner sakal, Dajil, regretfully whispered to Rogaan. “Into the pit to keep those you care for untouched and to have a chance at keeping your Light.”

  Rogaan looked at Dajil with new eyes. She stood stiff-backed. A hand and some shorter than he, she made up for her stature with attitude, an unyielding set to her jaws and featherwing-like eyes that now stared at him waiting for an answer in action to her counsel. Guilt washed over Rogaan again as he caught himself taking her in. She’s easy to look at, he admitted. Enough! Rogaan chastised himself once more before grabbing the chain. He gathered his courage, then resigned himself to a descent into the foul darkness.

  Chapter 22

  Through Another’s Eyes

  “We’ll all be in bondage soon,” Sinthrie passionately ranted. “No House or street wretch is beyond their reach now that many suckle them through their handouts. Our freedoms be in their palms, and they mean to take all that we have. There will be no one left to challenge them before long.”

  Rogaan sat in a squat with his back pressed to the damp and filthy stone wall. He found the floor even less inviting with things of all numbers of legs crawling about
. The stench was horrible. Brooding kept him awake for almost a day. He felt tired and fought the sleep tugging at him. He also struggled to believe the Baraan’s, Sinthrie’s, conspiracies. The once well-to-do Baraan survived his fall yesterday by landing on a padded garbage pile of something foul smelling. He still reeked of it. Rogaan rolled his eyes as Sinthrie continued his nonstop talking about how he woke to the truth once he was pulled from his status of earned privilege. He claimed his fall came at the hand of the Zas and those workings for them. Rogaan doubted little that the Baraan’s outspoken and opinionated ways played a part in his getting jailed and wished he would lose his incessant need to talk. Irritation grated at Rogaan as Sinthrie retold his plight for the umpteenth time. He had been a successful mineral merchant who was taken at blade point by the Tusaa’Ner and condemned by a corrupt Gal to the Farratum jails, all after he dared challenge new decrees, he considered tyrannical, pronounced by the Zas. Sinthrie claimed all was so. Rogaan had little to reason doubt him, given his own recent experiences, but suspected that Sinthrie embellished much. The Baraan’s stained clothing of fine making and his manner of speak as one learned in subjects beyond rocks and gems helped Rogaan believe Sinthrie’s assertions. What bothered Rogaan was, if true, Sinthrie’s story meant corruption ran deep to the core within Farratum, and its representatives possessed self-serving intents not obvious to the people.

  “They deceive the street with their twofold words.” Sinthrie passionately continued his ranting. He wanted the world to know of the corruption within Farratum, and that meant even those in this pit. “The same for the lesser Houses . . . Farratum selling their lies of plight and poverty as something made so by those with more than others. That those who have coin, assumed to have gained it unjustly by Farratum, horde it. It is in this Farratum fosters and creates envy and anger in the streets at the lesser Houses and in the lesser Houses at the greater Houses . . . then the cry to make justice . . . to take from those who have more by those with less becomes deafening. It is only Farratum officials who gains in all of this, the Zas and their benefactors, as the street only sees enough of that taken to keep it envious and angry.”